


Home Truths

by retrauxpunk



Category: Silicon Valley (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Angst Lite, But light angst, M/M, antagonistic friendship, but really you could also read it as a completely platonic thing, enjoy!!, i mean i did write this with the dinfoyle ship in mind, so it's up to you dear reader!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-14
Updated: 2019-06-14
Packaged: 2020-05-07 16:08:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19212898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/retrauxpunk/pseuds/retrauxpunk
Summary: Dinesh never lets Gilfoyle get to him. Right?





	Home Truths

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this in response to a prompt that a Tumblr anon sent to me: Dinesh and Gilfoyle are always fighting, but one day one of Gilfoyle's insults cuts too deep.
> 
> It was originally meant to be a drabble (written not least in order to procrastinate my multichapter jarrich fic) but I got, uh, slightly carried away? So yeah here's 2000+ words of Dinesh and Gilfoyle being idiots as usual.

‘I am not,’ said Gilfoyle, ‘a poser. The things I do and say are all reflections of my true self, and of my own beliefs. Which is more than can be said for you, thus making _you_ the real “poser” here.’

Dinesh snorted with laughter, but couldn’t resist taking the bait. ‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’

Gilfoyle folded his arms and spun around to face Dinesh. That was always a bad sign. He was smirking, too — or at least, his version of smirking, which involved an almost imperceptible twitch of the mouth, barely visible beneath his beard, and the slightest tilt of his head. To anyone who didn’t know Gilfoyle, the change in expression would have been barely noticeable; to Dinesh, it was loud and clear as a siren. A all-too-familiar siren, broadcasting all-too-familiar contempt.

‘It means,’ said Gilfoyle, ‘that you have no discernible personality or goals in life other than an obscene, all-consuming desperation to prove your worth via largely arbitrary measures handed down by society that you have unquestioningly internalised. What you are, what you do, and what you want is entirely relative — completely dependent on others and the need to feel better than them. You are the human embodiment of “keeping up with the Joneses” — or rather, the failure to do so.’

Dinesh stared. It was partly surprise at the unexpectedly long diatribe, but it was also the fact that he felt like something inside him had frozen, and he suspected that if he moved, then it would shatter and tear him apart from the inside out.

‘Oh, fuck you,’ he said finally, several seconds too late.

Gilfoyle simply shrugged and turned back to his computer. Now _that_ — not even bothering to respond — that was a _really_ bad sign. Dinesh could always tell when he was defeated. And so could Gilfoyle.

 

* * *

 

That evening, they went out — the whole Pied Piper team, plus Monica, who was taking them to an eye-wateringly expensive wine bar to celebrate the securing of their Series B round of funding.

Dinesh should have been happy. The venue was beautiful, somehow both elegantly understated and satisfyingly lavish at once, the bar snacks were delicious, and the alcohol was top-notch, flowing freely on someone else’s dime. Everyone was drunk, talking and laughing and having fun outside of work for the first time in ages.

 _Except me_ , he found himself thinking, partway through his latest of several glasses of wine. It wasn’t exactly a new realisation, but it was the first time he’d actually put it into words.

_Everyone here is having a good time except me._

He had tried to deny it, tried to enjoy himself and act like a normal peson, had been trying all day — but the sadly unavoidable fact of the matter was that he felt like shit, and had done so ever since Gilfoyle’s character assassination earlier that morning.

Except it wasn’t really a character assassination if it was true, was it? And the more Dinesh thought about it, the less he was able to convince himself that it wasn’t. Gilfoyle’s words had echoed in his head for the rest of the day, and Dinesh had analysed each and every one in painstaking detail.

And he had concluded, unavoidably, that Gilfoyle was right. As much as he wished he could, he was simply unable to refute any of it. He _was_ desperate to prove himself. He _did_ constantly judge himself in relation to others. Every success, every failure, it meant nothing unless measured up against the yardstick of someone else.

A nudge to the ribs broke him out of his reverie. Dinesh blinked, turning face a very drunk Richard.

‘Hey,’ he said, eyes hooded, grin crooked, ‘hey, earth to Dinesh?’

‘What?’ Dinesh responded, too loudly and too abruptly. The rest of the table turned to look at him. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Gilfoyle watching him, and tried to ignore it.

‘I was _asking_ ,’ said Richard, in a comically long-suffering tone, ‘if you wanted to get a magnum.’

Dinesh must have looked confused, because Richard rolled his eyes (since when did _Richard_ roll his eyes at _him_?) and elaborated, ‘Y’know, of _champagne_.’

‘Oh,’ said Dinesh. ‘Um.’ He opened his mouth to answer, and instead just sighed loudly to — at — himself. The usual enthusiasm that would’ve bubbled up in him at the prospect of such extravagant indulgences was completely absent. Had — had Gilfoyle _broken_ him?

‘You know what,’ he heard himself saying as he started to get up from his seat, ‘you guys go ahead. I’m gonna — I’m gonna go get some fresh air.’ He tried to smile, and could tell even without a mirror that it looked more like a grimace. A horrible, pathetic grimace, to match his persistently horrible, thoroughly pathetic mood.

Before the others could say anything, he lurched away from the table and, after a moment’s disorientation, headed for the courtyard.

It was an unseasonably cold night. The only other patrons outside were smokers, huddled near the doorway. Dinesh headed for the bench that was furthest away from the door, beneath a gnarled lemon tree, and sat down. He wrapped his arms around himself, wishing he’d brought his jacket. Still, there was no way he was going back inside just yet.

The answer, he decided, was ‘yes’ — Gilfoyle  _had_ broken him. Dinesh couldn’t remember when he’d last felt so miserable, and the worst part of it was that he was miserable while _also_ being drunk. His head pounded, his limbs were heavy and clumsy, and everything felt blunt and blurred — but there was none of the buzz, none of the _feeling good_. In fact, he realised, the alcohol didn’t even seem to be numbing his pain. It wasn’t doing the one thing that drink was meant to reliably do. Instead, he somehow felt both numb _and_ dreadful, the worst of both worlds. How was that possible — or, for that matter, fair?

He sighed, exhaling forcefully through gritted teeth. _What’s the plan here, exactly?_ asked a small, judgemental voice in his head. _Just gonna sit outside sulking like a child until someone comes to collect you? They’re not gonna come, they’re busy enjoying themselves. Unlike you._

God, he realised, he was still doing it. Still comparing himself to others, defining himself solely in relation to them. The thought was actually physically painful to consider.

Dinesh shifted in his seat, turning a little to face the entrance back into the bar. It really was cold outside. Maybe he should just go back in — or go home.

He was about to stand up when an all-too-familiar figure appeared in the doorway, silhouetted against the warm golden light of the bar’s interior.

 _Fuck_. Dinesh slumped back down on the bench and shifted uneasily as Gilfoyle approached him. _What does_ he _want?_

As Gilfoyle stepped into the light, Dinesh saw that he was carrying two flutes of champagne. They glinted in the light from the lamps scattered through the courtyard as he approached.

Without a word, Gilfoyle sat down on the bench beside Dinesh, and offered him one of the glasses.

Dinesh stared at it suspiciously, his gaze flicking between the champagne and Gilfoyle’s ever-impassive expression.

‘You gonna take it, or what?’ said Gilfoyle, when the silence stretched too long.

Dinesh took the glass, but didn’t take a sip. ‘What’s this for?’

Gilfoyle shrugged, so slightly that Dinesh almost missed it. ‘I thought,’ he said, in the same dry and measured tone always, ‘you might like some champagne.’

If it were anyone else, Dinesh would have been pleased. He’d have said thank you, he’d have drunk the champagne, and that would’ve been that.

But this was Gilfoyle.

‘What’s the catch?’ said Dinesh. ‘Why are you — why are you here? Was this —’ he gestured with the champagne glass, almost spilling its contents, ‘— just an excuse to come out here and mock me again?’

‘Don’t be an idiot,’ Gilfoyle responded, without missing a beat. ‘If my aim was to come out here to mock you, I wouldn’t need an excuse.’

Dinesh bristled, self-pity and misery suddenly transmogrifying into anger. ‘Oh, I’m _sorry_ ,’ he said, voice dripping with sarcasm. He was openly glaring at Gilfoyle now, staring into those unreadable eyes and wishing that he could literally bore into them with his own. ‘Forgive me for daring to suspect that the reason you came out here was to _make fun of me_ . It’s not like that’s ever _happened_ before or anything. There’s never been a _precedent_ for that kind of behaviour from you. _Silly me_.’

Gilfoyle didn’t respond. Dinesh seethed, still glaring. He dimly noticed that he was holding the stem of the champagne flute so tightly he might actually break it.

And then something completely unexpected happened — Gilfoyle looked away. He lowered his gaze, turning his head a little, ostensibly staring at the ground. Dinesh actually blinked in surprise, and loosened his grip on his glass to something a little more sensible.

Several seconds passed before Gilfoyle broke the silence. He raised his head but kept his gaze averted from Dinesh, instead staring straight ahead.

‘I didn’t mean it,’ he said.

‘Didn’t mean what?’ said Dinesh suspiciously.

Gilfoyle turned to face him, but didn’t meet his eyes. A second passed before he spoke. ‘What I said this morning. About you being … a poser. About how you live your life according to others, and how everything about you revolves around trying to prove —’

‘Yeah, I remember, asshole,’ Dinesh interjected sharply. ‘You don’t have to fucking repeat it.’ He shook his head in disgust. Whether the disgust was more directed at Gilfoyle or at himself, it was hard to say. ‘What’s your point?’

Gilfoyle looked up then, finally making eye contact again. ‘My point is — and I do not say this lightly — my point is, I was wrong.’ He spoke haltingly, as if saying the words were taking a not insubstantial amount of effort. ‘Those things I said about you were not ... accurate. And you shouldn’t act like they are.’

Dinesh could hardly believe his ears. It felt like the world was swaying around him, and not just from drunkenness.

‘Then why did you say it?’ he said at last.

Gilfoyle raised an eyebrow, as if to say, _really? You really have to ask?_

‘Because I was fucking with you,’ he said finally, when it became clear that Dinesh wasn’t going to accept silence as a response. ‘I said it to fuck with you, and that’s — that’s about it.’

Dinesh let out a humourless laugh. ‘Yeah, well.’ He fidgeted with the champagne glass, staring into its bubbly contents. ‘Even if that’s true — and that’s a big if —’ he stopped, cutting himself off with a sigh before speaking again, ‘— you turned out to be right anyway.’

Gilfoyle frowned slightly. It was the most expression Dinesh had seen on his face all day. ‘I’m sorry, what?’

Dinesh sighed again. ‘Look, I don’t know why you’re pretending to be nice to me, but you can stop, okay? What you said was true, all of it. You know it, I know it, you don’t need to lie to me to try and make me feel better. Just leave me alone. And you can take this with you,’ he added, thrusting the champagne flute at him. ‘I don’t fucking want your pity gifts.’

Gilfoyle looked down at the flute, then back at Dinesh. ‘Are you fucking serious?’ He pushed Dinesh’s hand away, gently but firmly. ‘This isn’t a pity gift. It’s — it’s an olive branch, you idiot. The only pity in this situation is the self-pity that you’re currently still wallowing in. And I am willing to accept that that is, to some extent, my fault. So —’ he heaved a breath, looking around the courtyard before continuing, almost as if to check for eavesdroppers, ‘I’m sorry.’

It took Dinesh a couple of tries to find his voice. ‘You’re fucking _what_?’

Gilfoyle’s lips twitched. Was that a _smile_ ? It was gone too quickly for Dinesh to be sure. ‘I’m sorry,’ he repeated, ‘for what I said.’ He looked down again, clearing his throat. Dinesh had never seen him look so uncomfortable before, and even while most of him was reeling, there was a small part that whispered, _relish this. It won’t happen again._

‘Trust me,’ he continued, ‘I know what I said, and I know it’s not true. Not completely, at least — maybe a bit. But,’ he added, seeing Dinesh’s eyebrows raise, ‘that’s the case for pretty much everyone on this earth, so I wouldn’t worry about it.’

Dinesh studied Gilfoyle’s expression, trying to spot the tell-tale trace of mockery, some sardonic twinkle in his eye, some sign that this was all a ruse. And maybe it was because he was too drunk, but he couldn’t find it.

‘Look,’ Gilfoyle went on, in a long-suffering though not exactly unpleasant tone, ‘if all you cared about really was just money and status and proving yourself according to society’s idea of success, do you think you would’ve stuck by Richard and Pied Piper through all the shit that we’ve been through?’ He looked Dinesh dead in the eye before continuing. ‘Do you think I’d still be tolerating your presence?’

Dinesh swallowed. The pounding in his head was much worse now, almost as bad as the ridiculous speed at which his heart was now beating. ‘Tolerating?’ he echoed, once he was sure he could speak without his voice shaking.

Gilfoyle definitely smiled then, briefly but unmistakably. ‘Voluntarily spending time with,’ he corrected. He gestured vaguely with one hand at their surroundings, as if to underline his point.

Dinesh didn’t know what to say. Part of him was still waiting for the trick, the cruel catch that was surely waiting for him. ‘You’re just saying that because you’re drunk,’ he mumbled, looking back at Gilfoyle, not quite daring to meet his eyes. As the words left his mouth, he found himself fervently wishing that he was wrong.

Gilfoyle responded by raising his glass. ‘ _In vino veritas,_ ’ he said.

Dinesh followed suit, more out of reflexive habit than anything else — he was still, simply put, in shock.

Gilfoyle clinked their glasses together. ‘In wine, there is truth,’ he translated, and brought the glass to his lips.

Dinesh did the same. As he savoured the sensation of bubbles dancing on his tongue, it occurred to him that he couldn’t remember the last time that champagne had never tasted quite so sweet.


End file.
